"I swear to you that for the past two months my life has been clean and God alone knows the anguish of remorse I have suffered. You'll help me, mother?" he asked pathetically.
"Yes, my son," she answered simply.
"You don't hate me?"—the question ended with a catch in his voice that made it almost inaudible.
She lifted her white hands to his cheeks, drew the tall form down gently and pressed his lips:
"No, my son, I've lived too long. I leave judgment now to God. The unshed tears I see in your eyes are enough for me."
"I must see her to-night, mother. Make her see me. I can't endure this."
"She will see you when I have talked with her," was the slow reply as if to herself. "I am going to tell her something that I hoped to carry to the grave. But the time has come and she must know."
The doctor was strolling on the lawn when they arrived.
"She didn't wish to see me, my boy," he said with a look of sympathy. "And I thought it best to humor her. Send for me again if you wish, but I think the mother is best to-night." Without further words he tipped his hat with a fine old-fashioned bow to Mrs. Carteret and hurried home.
At the sound of the mother's voice the door was opened, two frail arms slipped around her neck and a baby was sobbing again on her breast. The white slender hands tenderly stroked the blonde hair, lips bent low and kissed the shining head and a cheek rested there while sob after sob shook the little body. The wise mother spoke no words save the sign language of love and tenderness, the slow pressure to her heart of the sobbing figure, kisses, kisses, kisses on her hair and the soothing touch of her hand.